


Mint and Rainbow Carrots

by DiazTuna



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gilmore Girls Setting, F/F, Small Towns, Witches, what can I say it's gay! and hopefully the right amount of fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-21
Updated: 2018-12-21
Packaged: 2019-09-24 00:54:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17091017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DiazTuna/pseuds/DiazTuna
Summary: Regina Mills is a perfectionist chef and Emma Swan is her very unreliable produce person. They bicker over vegetables while a whole town is exasperated.Or the sort of Gilmore Girls AU that has been too long in the making.





	Mint and Rainbow Carrots

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rexinasofia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rexinasofia/gifts), [marauderas](https://archiveofourown.org/users/marauderas/gifts).



> This was meant to be finished so MUCH EARLIER THAN IT WAS. But here it is! My flex on CAOS (bc it's messy as hell) and Amy Sherman Palladino's writing (which did NOT age well). 
> 
> There are two playlists for this. One is for the [~mood~ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cNMhgC1yg_U&list=PLk_cBaVR-TG9b4A9Z80phCd4P1gWJEeV8) and the [other](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uIPnQQrIxR4&list=PLk_cBaVR-TG-ZrH4Monil-ycsszuwYuzO) is a playlist filled with the songs you'd expect to hear at a caribbean latinx diaspora wedding. 
> 
> I could not have done this without Sweets and Mila. And without Mari looking over something last minute.

A witch wedding is no small thing. Regina has learned, much later than she would have liked, that they are not rare events. Not insignificant. Everyday magic, like sugar and butter melting together in a saucepan. Not the kind that comes with complicated geometrical shapes drawn in salt or spells in foreign languages that have been long dead. She’s determined to get this right, to get exactly one third of a teaspoon cayenne pepper for every two of sea salt into her mortar. This wedding has to be perfect. 

 

“Gorda, you do know the wedding isn’t for another three weeks, right?” Marian asks her. Regina doesn’t need to look up to know she’s already pouring herself a third cup of coffee. 

 

“I am aware of the fact.” She replies carefully measuring out her cumin, sabor de la tierra. Too much and it’s all anyone will taste. 

 

Her fingers lightly tap the stainless metal of her working station, the clear sign that she knows more is coming. 

 

“I am also aware of the fact that one of the witch brides just so happens be one of the most accomplished cooks to have come out of Louisiana.” Regina can  _ smell _ that her mixture isn’t quite right. Not enough nutmeg to make the heart grow. 

 

“Who already sampled your dishes! And loved them!” Marian shakes her head like she has for years. 

 

“I served the bechamel that day.” 

 

“So?” 

 

“There were potatoes in that spread, Marian. Not even thinly sliced or crisped.” Regina adds pimienta gorda and cracks it open. Just enough to warm the blood. 

 

“Regina, we’ve talked about this. I can’t understand you when you’re in a mood. Walk me through it.” 

 

“It’s too heavy on the palate. And I’m sure it’s the exact dish that was served since before we started beheading kings.” She says plainly as she starts a fire at the stove with a flick of her wrist. 

 

“They approved of everything! AND paid for the venue with the very non-refundable deposit.” Marian does that from time to time, remind her of the bottom of line. She thinks maybe Regina has forgotten since she moved to the kitchen. 

 

“There’s a shortage of witch towns with appropriate venues in the whole of New England, so it’s not like they had a range of choices.” 

 

“Regina…” 

 

“If you tried my tomato sauce you would agree with me about the bechamel!” Regina tosses the spices onto a saucepan to get them to open up and toast just the right amount. For laughter and color on the cheeks. 

 

“OK,” Marian sets down her mug very carefully. “Give it to me.”

 

“I’d have it if it weren’t for that flaky, unreliable…” 

 

The kitchen’s back door opens so abruptly that Regina should have expected it. She should have, it’s been two years of Emma Swan never arriving on time. With that mass of blonde hair loose on her shoulders and just a strand of hay lost in it. And that expression that screams sunlight that threatens to drive Regina insane every morning.

 

“...produce woman.” Regina scowls as she takes the crate from Emma Swan’s arms. “These aren’t ripe.” She presses her thumb against one of them and it’s as hard as an apple. 

 

“Morning to you too, Your Majesty.” 

 

“Why aren’t they ripe, Miss Swan? I specifically…” 

 

“Asked for ripe tomatoes when you sent that raven at exactly ten thirty-five last night,” She cuts her off and has the gall to laugh while she does it. “Witches are allowed phones now, you know?” 

 

“Answer the question.” She gives another tomato a squeeze and wonders if it’s hard enough to give Emma Swan a bruise. 

 

“The spell hasn’t taken yet.” 

 

Regina knows she’s glowering because Marian quietly picks up her mug and exits the kitchen. 

 

“The. spell?” She extinguishes the fire on the stove before her spices are burned. “Tell me you’re growing a constant supply of tomatoes. That you at least have a pinch of responsibility.” 

 

Emma Swan bites her bottom lip, Regina has all her tells memorized. “You are  _ unbelievable _ ! So my entire menu depends on whether or not your half-baked spells take or not?!”

 

“Hey! Like anyone else in town could do better!” 

 

“You’re the only produce person in town, you idiot!” 

 

“Exactly!” 

 

Regina’s nostrils flare as she inspects another offensive fruit. “And what the hell am I supposed to do with these? They’re still green!” 

 

“A salad?” 

 

“Over rice?! Do you take me for some sort of Vegas-all-you-can-eat cook?!” 

 

“Maybe if your menus weren’t so inflexible…” Emma Swan lacks common sense and survival instincts. Regina knows that by the way she leans on her work station. 

 

“Get out before I set you on fire,” Regina says through her teeth.

 

“I’m taking my tomatoes with me!” She tilts her head in such a way that suggests that this is another challenge. Her hands are too quick to grab the crate, maybe she expects Regina to fight her on it. 

 

“Fine!” Regina crosses her arms, determined to win whatever this is. 

 

“See you tomorrow!” There is always a shimmer to the green of her eyes when she says those words. “It’s blackberries you need for your sauce, right?” 

 

“OUT!” She points towards the door thinking of her buffalo being ruined by the wrong kind of berry. 

 

Emma Swan stomps out of her kitchen and slams the door closed for good measure. Regina hates it and most of all the way she can’t stop smiling.

 

* * *

 

Emma has come to like Sundays. She hadn’t always, not when they had been full of families and other things that didn’t belong to her. But Sundays in Storybrooke mean it’s market day, full of sound and too busy to dwell. She has the best spot, with her back to town square. Eddie the Green had submitted a motion to have her removed from it on account that new witches shouldn’t take precedence over town elders. Marian Álvarez had booed him off the stage at the town meeting. His eyebrows had caught on fire right after, though she isn’t too sure as to what she makes out of that. Eddie, still eyebrowless, gives her stink eye from the other end of the square. 

 

“Hi Eddie!” She waves purely to set off the car parked behind him. To her own credit, Emma is very good at keeping herself from snickering. 

 

“Will you ever stop antagonizing him?” Mulan appears out of thin air, almost making her yelp. 

 

“Who says I am?” She replies too quickly for it to be anything but a stupid attempt at keeping her cool.  

 

Mulan rolls her eyes and picks up one of her newest experiments. “Trying to impress someone, Swan?”  

 

“Into a paying two bucks for a coconut, maybe.” Emma sticks her hands in her pockets, feeling her ears go warm. 

 

“Sure. I believe that.” Mulan’s smirk is barely visible but it’s definitely there. “Do you have any scallions?”

 

“Cooking dinner for two?” She wiggles her eyebrows until she can see her friend blush. 

 

“How did you…?” 

 

“Just a guess,” Emma weighs her scallions before wrapping them in a paper bag. “That and I’m a produce person. I know all your secrets.” 

 

“It’s new. This thing with...” The color hasn’t left Mulan’s cheeks. 

 

“Better to not jinx it, then.” Emma offers a smile because this is how they work best. Quiet understandings and few words. In a small town like Storybrooke that goes a long way. 

 

“Right.” Mulan returns the smile as she takes the bag. “I’d say good luck with... but I don’t want to jinx it.” 

 

“You’re hilarious, Hua.” Emma replies and waits until her back is turned to focus on her spread. 

 

She polishes the skin of her mangoes with her sleeves, they’re getting to be ripe. Emma doesn’t know much about tropics magic but she’d given it a shot after she’d gone several holes down witchpedia. The right kind of soil, the right angle under the Sun and the right rhythm to her spells could yield her fruit no one else in seven towns would be able to grow. There has never been many magic things she’s good at, not when she had been spent most of her adult life as a bailsbondsperson that just had a  _ very good intuition.  _ There is hardly any running or punching in witchcraft, Emma had learned too late, so she decided sticking her hands into dirt was the next best thing. 

 

“You say you’re charging SIXTY CENTS a piece?!” Emma hears a familiar voice say. 

 

“These are San Manzano!” Rob, the warlock farmer from Skyville, argues in a voice that has gone higher than ever.

 

“Am I supposed to believe you brought soil from Mt. Vesuvius to grow these? And charge an arm and a leg for them?!”

 

Emma quickly turns to find Regina Mills inspecting tomatoes as Rob eyes her carefully. She’s moving before she can stop herself. 

 

“I can’t believe you!” She rolls up her sleeves as Regina looks at her, squeezing that tomato harder than she should. “Going for Skyville crops!” 

 

“Like you gave me a choice!” The cold does something to her skin that Emma can’t ignore. There isn’t much about Regina Mills that she can ignore. Not her dark eyes or immaculately applied lipstick. Not that she tries too often. 

 

“You didn’t even give me a chance!” Emma has been working at it, really. Apparently spells don't take when tomatoes need to ripen. Something against the laws of time and nature. “They would have been ready by morning!” 

 

For a second she sees hesitation in Regina’s face, but it’s gone as soon as it had come. “Is that really a promise you can make?” 

 

“You know what? Go ahead, buy Skyville tomatoes.” She shrugs because it’s stupid to be upset over this. “I’m not the one prepping for a wedding.” 

 

Regina’s eyes widen. Maybe she hadn’t seen this coming and a not-so-small part of Emma is satisfied by that. “Miss Swan…” She begins.

 

“Those are fake San Manzanos, by the way. Rob over there probably just overheated the soil.” 

 

“Hey! That’s not true!” He says nervously, scratching at his neck.

 

“Don’t use a microwave next time, buddy.” Emma turns on her heel only to feel a hand on her elbow. 

 

“Could you just stop acting like a child for two seconds?” Regina’s eyes are set in a glare when Emma turns to look at her. Her skin is flushed down to her neck. 

 

“When you apologize.”

 

“For what?” Regina scoffs. “I haven’t done anything wrong.”

 

“Oh I’m sorry, I didn’t know you were running for town sociopath.” It’s not that she means the words, but it’s not that she doesn’t mean them either. 

 

“You’d be hard to beat.” Regina presses her lips and maybe it’s meant to be a challenge. She’s insufferable when she wants to be. Most of the time. 

 

“Ugh. Whatever.”

 

Emma stalks off to her stand with as much grace as can be expected from her. She feels eyes on her as she rearranges her onions and potatoes, determined to not look elsewhere. Because she doesn’t care that Regina Mills had been fighting Rob from Skyville about tomatoes. She doesn't.

 

* * *

Mulan makes sure the laces of her sneakers are just tight enough for her run. It’s almost seven and already dark but she prefers it that way. Storybrooke is quiet at this time, almost everyone is already having dinner. But this is the best time for her magic. When the chill of the air is just cold enough for her muscles. Perfect conditions for her spells. A quick jog and stretch just outside her door and she’s off keeping a beat to her steps. It’s the beach she visits first, the ocean breeze is good for the bones. She hums her spells, because all muscle spells are best when hummed, until the vibrations from her vocal chords reach the rest of her. It's always the same unbelievable feeling, her magic expanding in her legs, strengthening the fibers in her muscles. Letting her go faster as she leaves the beach and opts for the road instead. Asphalt is bad for the body so she makes her feet lighter with the breeze. 

 

It’s an Autumn Thursday, which means that Storybrooke smells of fallen leaves and that the streetlights shine golden on the streets. It’s everybody’s favorite time of the year. The season of the All-American witch or so the town banners say. There’s the book fair this weekend and she smiles at the thought. It’s the same old books Belle and a few others haul from the nearest cities. She can hardly find anything for the muscle magic inclined or beyond the town’s usual tastes, but there is a children’s book waiting for Marian and Roland. Picturing a four year old warlock opening pop-up book in the middle of town square is enough to make her look ridiculous. Curls and dimples will do that to anyone, she reasons. Mulan isn’t even horrified that she’s slowly becoming one of those people who talks about weekend camping plans and bothers to make out-of-town dinner reservations.

 

Her smile is still embarrassing when she hits Main Street. Emma is just across the road, eating fries out of a Granny’s bag. She must’ve had an emergency delivery and let Ruby tip her in extra fries. Mulan is about to wave and tell her to wait up but stops dead in her tracks. Her friend has frozen just outside the grocer’s and makes a dash to hide behind a tree when the doorbell jingles. Regina Mills emerges with two full bags in her arms, unaware that Emma is practically bending herself backwards to avoid being seen.

 

“This is getting out of hand.” Mulan mutters as she watches the whole thing unfold. It’s painful really, Regina Mills setting down her bags on the bench just next to the tree and Emma inching away little by little. 

 

She knows about last Sunday. Marian had called her early on Monday from the Inn to tell her that Emma had come and gone in less than three minutes and Regina had been quietly steaming after. It isn’t like them, it isn’t like Emma to skulk away from anyone. Especially not from the person who has her digging deep into the witchnet for new and impossible crops. Not that she’ll ever admit it. She cringes watching Regina becoming aware that she isn’t alone and Emma holding her breath.

 

“Hey Regina!” Mulan waves to catch her attention and jogs over to give Emma a quick escape. 

 

“Mulan,” she says, surprised at the gesture. “Out for a run?” 

 

“Ah... yeah,” Emma quietly slides away from the tree and mouths a thank you. “Um... do you need help with those?” she asks before she can help herself. 

 

As she carries groceries for two blocks and makes the world’s worst small talk, she silently hopes that this is over soon. For  _ everyone's _ sake. 

* * *

 

 

Nothing is bothering her. It's Friday night and she’s slicing garlic to flavor her oil and the peppers are roasting in the oven. Regina's house is beginning to smell of that warmth she has craved since she was a girl. It's quiet except for the sound of her knife on wood and Mercedes Sosa coming from her player. Nothing is bothering her. 

 

“Mom, I'm home!” Henry announces. Regina can hear that he's dropped his book bag by the door along with his shoes. But it's Friday night and she doesn't mind. “That smells like it's gonna be… your roasted pepper aji?” 

 

She kisses her son’s cheek and pretends he isn't already a head taller than she is. “Very good. Mark the map, will you?” 

 

“Were you waiting for me?” he asks, uncapping a red marker and coloring in Peru. 

 

“Don't tell me you're getting too old for our food map.” Regina holds a wooden spoon to her apron because it hadn't come off as lightly as she would have liked. 

 

“Never.”  He squeezes her shoulder before reaching for plates. “Besides, can witches get to be too old for anything?”

 

Her mind goes to a mop of blonde hair and a flash of a smile that is too playful sometimes. But she isn't thinking about this. Because nothing is bothering her. “No,  cariño. I suppose not.” Regina is quick to catch the sigh that almost escapes her. 

 

“A 600 year average life span kind of puts into perspective, huh?” Regina hums in reply as he sets the table behind her. “Is everything OK?” 

 

“Of course. Why wouldn’t it be?” She answers, pulling out the hot sheet from the oven and letting her hands absorb just enough heat from the peppers to pull their skin. There is nothing to think about, Regina tells herself. Not green eyes that have been avoiding her gaze. 

 

“No reason. I just thought I should ask. I know it’s been a busy couple of days.” 

 

“I’ve raised you so well.” It makes Henry smile as he shakes his head and moves to help her. “I won't be this busy again until the wedding and I'll take a breather before then. I promise.” 

 

“Mom…” He says in a way that’s too adult for his age for a boy who just got his witch’s mark. “It’s alright if things are a little busy. I don’t mind.” 

 

Regina bumps his arm and allows herself to laugh. That’s how they are Friday nights, quiet laughs and tidbits of information. Her son will be sixteen soon, that would have meant something else had she decided to raise him elsewhere. But in Storybrooke it means her car’s clutch getting more work than it’s used to and a gym bag that needs a jinx to keep its smell at bay. They’re at the table in the blink of an eye, she smiles watching him spoon just the right amount of aji over his meat. He takes a bite and his expression isn’t what Regina had been hoping for. Much too thoughtful.

 

“Did I leave in too much oil?”

 

“No, mom. It’s great!” Henry says after swallowing much too quickly. “Really, it’s great.” 

 

“But…” Regina gives him the  _ mom _ look that is supposed to disarm him, no matter how tall he is. “I’d rather you tell me, sweetheart.” 

 

“These aren’t Emma’s red peppers, are they?” 

 

She takes a sip of her wine before she can answer because the experience of being blindsided on a Friday night where nothing is bothering her calls for it. “What makes you think so?”

 

“Emma likes to experiment. Sometimes she messes up but she has her red peppers down.” He cocks his head as he looks at her. “She crosses them with cayenne for the kick.” 

 

“I was at the store yesterday and thought it convenient to just buy them there.” Regina knows her son will catch the lie quickly but manages to keep the pretense up. 

 

“Mom…” He pushes just enough, gives her that cara de angel look that cuts through every defense. “You never buy anything at the store just because it’s easier.” 

 

“Miss Swan and I... we haven’t been on speaking terms this week.” 

 

She hadn’t expected it. Monday morning had come and Regina had been ready to berate her for being late and for bringing turnips instead of the yuca she’d ordered. But Emma Swan had been there at exactly 8 o’clock with yuca and had only asked for her signature. Then Tuesday had come, as had the ordered cranberries and nothing more than a mumble. On Wednesday Regina had tried to coax her into an argument, said the carrots were much too small, Emma Swan had apologized and handed her the slip anyway. Thursday had seen her fretting, rushing to get back to the kitchen before she missed her. Juanita, her sous-chef, had signed for the crate of purple potatoes. Today, Regina had tried to tell her the cucumbers would make great pickles. She’d gotten nothing more than a nod from her. It's eating away at her that Emma Swan refuses to speak to her. It shouldn’t. But it does.

 

“Not speaking? Not even bickering?” he asks with his brow furrowed, as if he’s an expert on all things Emma Swan. 

 

Regina shakes her head and takes a bite from her meat. He’s right, it’s clear that these didn’t come from her. 

 

“Is this about you buying your tomatoes from Rob from Skyville?” 

 

“I didn’t actually buy any of those sub par tomatoes he’s peddling so if that’s what this is about…” The words just slip out of her and feels her face grow warmer. “How did you know about that?” 

 

“Miss Blanchard was at the market--” 

 

“So naturally the whole of Storybrooke knows.” Regina doesn’t know why anything about this town still surprises her. Her son fixes with the same look he’s been giving since the 4th grade when she hadn’t known to play nice with Mary Margaret’s bird singing persona. 

 

“I think you might have hurt her feelings.” 

 

“Emma Swan does not get her feelings hurt, Henry.” She scoffs because she knows her. Regina has called her asparagus anemic shadows of celery and she has laughed in her face. “Especially not over produce.” 

 

“Not over hers. Maybe she doesn't like you buying some random warlock’s stuff. ” He says quietly. “Or you know, doing your  _ thing _ with him.”  

 

“Thing? We don't have a  _ thing _ .” She lies, barely keeping her face straight. 

 

“Mom, please. I know I'm not even a quarter of a century old but…” Henry presses his lips together and gives her an expectant look. 

 

Regina takes another sip of her wine as she considers his words. Considers the look in Emma Swan's eye last Sunday and the way she had turned her back on her. The way she's pulled at her sleeves every morning since Monday and the Emma Swan shaped shadow she’d thought she’d seen at the bookstore. 

 

“You two need to make up. It’s curry next Friday night and I hear she managed to grow some killer mangoes.” 

 

She can only laugh at her boy, knowing her cheeks are fully flushed by now. 

 

* * *

It’s ten to six and she’s starving. The potion Granny Lucas had forced on her had done her no favors and she won’t even get her arm back tomorrow. Bone magic is not that simple, girl, is what she’d said only a few hours ago. You gotta deal with joints, calcium. At least no marrow is involved, Granny had plugged her nose to make sure she swallowed. Emma grunts on her couch and blinks to switch the channel on her old tv because it’s all she can do with a broken elbow. It takes ten minutes to get her to feel restless again, usually at this point of the day her feet ache and her arms are sore in that way she likes. Ruby had taken over her deliveries today, even cast a spell that kept her from checking on any of her crops. It’s Saturday and she wonders if the eggplants worked out for the Inn today. She blinks past another channel because she cannot think about Regina Mills while she’s been forced off her feet. 

 

Emma finally moves to rummage through her fridge and pantry. Bread, cheese and ham should do it. She  _ doesn’t _ think that Regina would probably be horrified at the idea of mayo in this. The non-thought makes her try and work the lid harder. It slips away from her one-handed grasp and rolls under her table.

 

“Son of a bitch, it’s like I’m cursed.” she mutters, crouching down, trying to keep her broken arm safe. 

 

Just when Emma has the damn thing in her grip, she hears the bells in her yard go off. Whoever it is, they’re quick because the wood on her porch is creaking before she can take another breath.  She remembers too late that her front door isn’t locked. 

 

“You have some nerve making Ruby Lucas deliver those eggplants today, which by the way were too big for the dish and--” Regina Mills just burst through her door, scarf coming undone as she comes closer. 

 

“Only you could manage to spin that into a problem.” Emma cuts her off, making sure her back is turned as she gets to her feet. 

 

“If you had bothered to show up you would have known.” It takes all of her willpower to stay just where she is. “But you’re too busy being cooped up in here, acting like an immature schoolgirl about something that in my opinion wasn’t even a  _ real  _ argument…”

 

She finally faces her, it’s the first time she’s seen Regina Mills just stop in the middle of anything. Emma sees her eyes drop to her sling and the fingers poking out of it. 

 

“Oh.” The color is gone from her face. “How…?” 

 

That’s enough to disarm her, to make her shake her head to keep from laughing. “I’m a dumbass.” 

 

Regina doesn’t take the bait, only raises an eyebrow and clutches her purse tighter. 

 

“There was a stubborn root today. It just wouldn’t come out.” Emma doesn’t know where to look or what to do with what she sees. Regina’s half-open mouth or the rain droplets on her hair she’s just noticing. “Guess I pulled a little too hard and landed on my elbow.” 

 

“But you’re a witch” she says, looking puzzled for the first time in the whole time she’s known her. 

 

“Witches’ bones break too, Regina.” Emma sees her brow furrowing, clearly an effort to bite her tongue. 

 

“Have you at least had someone take a look at it?” Regina looks like she’s holding herself in place. Maybe that’s just wishful thinking. 

 

“Yeah. Should be back to work in a couple of days.” 

 

“Good. That’s good.” Her voice is restrained and suddenly Emma wants nothing more than fix it. She tries to open the cursed jar again and that does it. She can tell by the way Regina quickly scans the ingredients on the counter. “Tell me you aren’t planning to pair mayonnaise with that Gruyere.”

 

“Is that what that fancy cheese is?” Trying to keep from smiling is pretty much pointless, even battling condiments as she is. “This guy Lumiere traded it for some artichokes.”

 

“Step aside, Miss Swan.” Maybe her heart stops a little when she sees Regina setting her purse on her arm chair and throwing her coat over it. “You’re a danger to yourself and others.” 

 

“Where were you this morning?” Emma moves out of the way without being able to keep her eyes from her. 

 

“Waiting on a delivery of offensively large eggplants.” There’s a blatant smirk on Regina’s lips. “Sit. Away from the kitchen.” 

 

“Hey, this is my house!” she protests, letting herself sink into the meaning of that. Regina Mills in her house because she’d missed a delivery. Because of some stupid tomatoes. 

 

There is only the look she gives her, like there might be fire in her future, that pushes her to sit. Emma watches her, it’s all she can do. For all the times she’d arrive with a crate full of vegetables she’d send back or begrudgingly accept, she’d never seen Regina cook. One of the many things Emma had learned too late about magic is that every person has a unique energy. She’d never bothered to feel for it until today. But she doesn’t need to try. The air settling on her fingertips is warm. Maybe like she’s standing by a cliff overlooking the water, somewhere far away from here. Her chest is full catching Regina muttering spells as she whisks flour and butter with a fork. Crack two eggs. Order the cheese to grate itself with a snap of her fingers. Could be that she’s bewitched and not cursed. Or it could be both. 

 

Emma sucks in a breath when Regina sets a plate in front of her. It’s nowhere near the pathetic sandwich she’d been planning on munching as she blinked past channels. A fried egg lies on top with a thick sauce dripping onto the plate. 

 

“Maybe I should stop talking to you more often.” She tries to laugh but it trails off into something embarrassing when Regina sits at the table with a plate of her own. 

 

“Don’t you dare.” It’s between an order and a threat, Regina even manages to produce a glare. “And besides, you’re convalescing.”

 

“So you took pity on me?” 

 

“Entirely. You have a kicked puppy quality to you.” She rolls her eyes as she breaks the yolk of her egg. “It’s infuriating, actually.” 

 

Emma tries to hides her smile by taking her first bite. A mistake because it becomes impossible to hide after that. She doesn’t mind. Maybe Regina doesn’t either.

 

* * *

 

 

Her left boot is chafing her, she's just realising that now. It's the boots that were guaranteed to improve a hiking witch's experience of the outdoors. Marian should have known better but then again she always falls for anything that sells her a forest. She's already at the at the Inn so a spell from Regina will have to do. Spells that go beyond the earth and water have never been her strong suit. Those inclinations have always earned her whispers from those gringas come mierda from Main Street but at this point all she does is laugh. It’s a new millenium and thank all the stars for that. Old magic is back in and they can just stay at the storefronts with their love potions and latin.

 

Marian hisses as she feels skin already peeling as she makes her way over the guestbook. It’s just as full as it had been two days ago. Monday does nothing to stop witch tourism. Autumn is always like this, witches arriving in big groups with trunks full of trinkets and objects that should not have been packed. It's a lot of work, to program for different covens and different regional customs. Malibu witches must never coincide with any other coven, lest healing crystals be weaponized. No one really understands that particular issue. Mulan is sure it’s something related to Malibu witches selling out practices that weren’t even their own. All Marian knows is that she takes her time off on that week and lets Willa take over. 

 

The worst they had was some four years ago, when the head witch made the chef and staff quit on the spot after one demand too many. Regina called them weak-stomached cowards and put the apron on herself. Marian enlisted the Lost Boys and Merry Women as staff and they have never looked back. Neither of them thought they'd still be here with Marian leading hikes through the Storybrooke woods three times a week and Regina still in the kitchen. She knows for a fact that Regina never thought she'd be in a lot places. 

 

“And WHY would you think chayote was a good idea?!” she hears just as she nears the kitchen. Marian sighs in relief, things are back to normal. 

 

“Isn't it supposed to absorb flavor or something?” 

 

“Morning, everyone.” Marian interrupts them as she moves to pour herself some coffee. 

 

“Tell her,” Regina demands. Her arms are crossed and she is determined to be offended by the inoffensive vegetable. 

 

“Tell her what?” She adds a splash of cream and waits for one of them to speak. Because one of them will and she has to keep herself from laughing sometimes. 

 

“If that pineapple worked out for Roland’s allergies?” Emma asks, hijacking Regina's question.

 

“Oh, bringing up a four-year-old to divert attention from this is just a new low.” Marian almost chokes on her coffee. ”Please tell Miss Swan that chayote is a flavorless squash that has no place in my kitchen.” 

 

“OK.” She breathes in because it has been two years of this outrageous  _ thing _ that is a danger to everyone involved. But especially her. “The pineapple worked out great. He wanted me to tell you he wants strawberries next.” 

 

Marian lets herself be amused by Regina's deep look of betrayal 

 

“Is now really the time for customer reviews?” 

 

“Isn't he your godson?” Emma seems like she lives for that angry vein on Regina's temple. 

 

“That’s a good point,” Marian adds, winking at her best friend who glares daggers at her. 

 

“Which is why I don't like him being used to skirt around the issue.” Regina's chin is out, and that is the first warning to duck for cover. 

 

“The issue?” The blonde cocks her head, and that is the second warning sign. 

 

Regina's cheeks darken and it takes Marian back to a particular town meeting. Roland had been dozing off on her shoulder and Regina had suddenly gone very still next to her. Emma Swan had stood there in her boots and leather jacket and introduced herself as a newcomer. She remembers Regina clearing her throat at  _ that _ . She'd briefly mentioned getting into horticulture as she zeroed in on Regina. That'd been the first time Marian had seen her cheeks turn that shade of red. Good sense is only bringing it up once every full moon.

 

“Yes. The issue.” Regina throws her hands to her side. “Of you clearly not understanding the difference between sweet potato and the most insipid, useless thing to grow!” 

 

“It rained yesterday!”

 

“What the hell does that have to do with anything?!” 

 

Marian shifts her weight and feels the back of her ankle already raw against the leather. It might be a while until Regina can fix her boot judging by their standstill. Emma looks like she’s going nowhere and Regina truly loathes chayote. 

 

“It isn’t good for for sweet potato! You would have hated them if I had brought them today!” She stuffs her hands in her pockets, which she very rarely does once they’re at the two-warnings stage of a match. 

 

“And how do you know I would have hated them, Miss Swan?” Regina takes a step forward without a sign of a threat. It’s so unusual that it makes Marian put down her coffee. 

 

“Because you’re very particular about your sweet potato. First of all it can’t be the white kind because that’s…”

 

“Bland,” she completes and Marian can swear there’s a smile begging to be let out. A witch can dare to hope for a miracle.

 

“Right. And if they’re too small then they can’t be roasted properly because last time I tried that you made me take them all back.” Emma rests her arm on her crate and breathes in. Like she’s practiced what she’s going to say next. “And this crop was going to turn out just fine but then it rained, and none of it matters because you have this vendetta against chayote…”

 

“It’s justified, believe me.”  Marian smiles, seeing Regina being flushed past the point of embarrassing as she speaks. She is never going to let her live this down. 

 

“Yeah well, I’d been trying to make the stupid sweet potatoes fiberless because if you want them mashed then you have to deal with strainers which REALLY puts you in a mood the next day--” 

 

“You tried to make them fiberless? That’s just plain illogical. That’s where all the starch is, how are they supposed to hold together?” Regina is really trying hard at something here because her eyes have softened and Marian isn’t entirely sure what is going on anymore. 

 

“I was just trying to save you time but if you wanna tell me how to--” 

 

“Have dinner with me.” Regina says so suddenly that Juanita drops a bowl and Carmen trips and falls on her way out of the walk-in. 

 

“I..uh..Yeah. Yes.” Emma keeps her stammer to a minimum, which is impressive considering Marian’s jaw is still on the floor. 

 

“Is Friday good?” Her smile is small, maybe like she still expects Emma to back out of it. “It’s curry night but if that doesn’t work --” 

 

“It works great. Really great.” Suddenly she seems out of breath. “So I’m gonna take these and I’ll see you tomorrow.” Emma takes her crate of chayotes and doesn’t even shut the door behind her. 

 

“Ay, al fin! Alabado seas!” Manuela shouts from the pantry.

 

Regina looks like she might pass out and no one can stop laughing. 

* * *

 

Wine. It’s probably not the best, like she can tell the difference between a Cabernet Sauvignon and Merlot. Emma takes one deep breath as she heads out of the town’s only liquor store. Mrs. Whitaker had spent far too much of her time eyeing her as she walked up and down the wine aisle. She isn’t too sure what her brand of magic is, but Emma knows when she’s being judged. It’s better to just get going. It’s Friday night, just a little over seven, and she is headed towards Regina Mills’ house. For dinner. Emma lets herself shiver inside her jacket because tonight doesn’t feel real. It is, she knows that. She’s been hoping for this to happen and convincing herself that it never would. That it would always just be early morning arguments that got too heated and nothing beyond that. But then Monday and chayote happened and things haven’t been the same.

 

Emma hasn’t known what to do with herself. Where to stand when she’s delivered rainbow carrots, has probably smiled at the wrong times. Regina had actually  _ thanked  _ her for the leeks yesterday. They’d been puny, any other day she might have come up with three different ways to insult them, but yesterday Regina had just taken them. Maybe this whole thing is a mistake. It could be, a lot of things in her life have been. Emma gets that old itch at the bottom of her feet, the urge to run.  Last time she’d felt it she packed up her things from the city and just drove until she crossed the town line. Never looked back. But tonight feels different from then, like it’s settled in her stomach too and it’s fluttering. Like…

 

“Butterflies.” Emma mumbles as she turns a corner and laughs in disbelief. 

 

Attempting to compose herself, she starts counting the numbers down Mifflin Street. Emma has lived here two years and has never bothered to hang around this side of town too long. The houses look like they’re older than rest, which is saying something in Storybrooke. Brick and wood as far as the eye can see. It’s not the type of place she’d pictured for Regina. Not that she’s spent time picturing Regina anywhere. Not too much, anyway. 116. 114. 112. 110. The houses all look the same, the same manicured lawn. For a second she’s afraid she might ring the wrong doorbell but then she reaches 108. Emma laughs again because of course it stands out. Regina Mills’ house is not made out of brick or wood. The roof is made from orange tiles and all the windows are arched. Black bars cover the ones on the first floor and the house is a smooth white. It’s the garden leading up to the front door that catches her eye, pink and purple flowers. It isn’t Autumn in there. Just as her thumb feels one of the petals, the front door opens. 

 

“Ya me voy! I’ll be back before eleven” Henry Mills says looking over his shoulder. “I can always make it later if…-” 

 

Regina must have said something back because he snickers. He shuts the door, and she suddenly remembers where exactly she’s standing. Emma does her best to look cool, like this isn’t her date’s kid raising both his eyebrows at her. 

 

“Hi Emma,” he says, possibly trying his best to sound oblivious. 

 

“Hey, kid.” She greets him like he’s stopping at her fence for a couple of avocados. 

 

“I won’t be back until…” 

 

“Eleven. Yeah. Got it.” Emma does not look him in the eye while she tightens her grip on the bottle.

 

He pockets his keys and smiles. “Good luck.” 

 

“Uh, thanks.” She rubs at her neck and lets him leave before walking up to the front door. 

 

Emma takes one last breath to steady herself before ringing the doorbell. Maybe she should have taken two because Regina Mills opens the door and she’s forgotten how to breathe. A dark blue dress with a zipper running on its side and stopping short on her thigh would do that to anyone. Emma usually only catches glimpses of her outside her chef’s coat, never something like this. This isn’t a date. This is attempted murder. 

 

“Miss Swan…  _ Emma _ .-” Regina is holding the door open but she can’t move. Not yet. 

 

“Hi,” Emma says in the worst and most transparent tone. “You look... you look good.” Her voice is raspy and it takes all her strength to keep from cringing. 

 

“Thank you.” It sounds just like when she thanked her for the leeks. “You look nice.” 

 

Emma looks to check that she is wearing her nicest shirt under her jacket. The jeans she'd worn for her first official town meeting. It pales in comparison to Regina's  _ everything _ , but she's here now. With that fluttering in her stomach getting worse as she feels Regina's eyes on her. 

 

“Hope red is OK for curry?” She hands her the wine like it’s an offering. Emma doesn't know of what.

 

“Yes, we can work with it. Come in.” It's sounds almost rehearsed coming from Regina but Emma tries to ignore it as she steps inside. 

 

There is something about it, this place. It's clear from the moment the door closes behind her. It's Regina, of that she's sure. The air is like it had been when she'd been moving and cooking in her kitchen. It's stronger here, like it's wrapped around her. It would be dumb to say it, to say she thinks this could be what she'd been missing and she hadn't known until now. 

 

“Nice place,” is what she says instead. Emma takes a second to admire the tile and the dark wood beams holding up the house instead of keeping her eyes on Regina. 

 

“It was my father's house,” Regina says in way of explanation, her voice gentler than she’s ever heard it. “Make yourself at home. Dinner will just be a minute.”

 

Before Emma can protest against the idea of being left alone in the foyer, Regina has gone and left her. She sighs and takes off her jacket. Faint music is coming from what Emma assumes is the kitchen. At least it cuts through the awkwardness of her steps as she steps into a sitting room. The art that hangs from the walls has more color than she's seen in Storybrooke. Blues, yellows and purples from flowers and streets Emma has never been to. People dressed in white and the moon hanging over them. The fluttering gets stronger and the old question of  _ enough _ comes with it. It makes her remember broken pavement and the muted colors that raised her. 

 

“They're really something, aren't they?” Regina says suddenly and Emma tries not to be startled. “That one is my favorite.” She points to a woman who is hiding under a straw hat. 

 

“It's beautiful.” She can't help it if she turns her gaze on Regina then.

 

It must be her eyes tricking her into seeing red on Regina's cheeks. Because she only ever sees it in the early morning when she strains her voice ranting about radishes. Regina clears her throat and stands just a little straighter. 

 

“Dinner is ready, we should…” 

 

“Get it while it's hot?” Emma blurts it out before she can stop herself. She thinks once she saw a spell for being swallowed by the ground.

 

“Right.” It's all Regina says before leading her to the kitchen. She thinks she feels sweat dripping down her back. Regina has to be rethinking all this. Probably knows it was a mistake since she saw the label on the wine and this mix of quiet and her foot in her mouth was the final straw. Emma will reach the kitchen and there will be a doggie bag waiting for her and then she'll have to switch jobs or towns. 

 

But it's the table set for two and her uncorked wine that reassures Emma she at least has until the end of dinner. Dinner that smells like life exploded all over the kitchen. Regina sits and Emma is just a little dumbstruck by the idea of joining her. This isn't a sandwich and Regina in her uniform. Her arm isn't broken and music is playing instead of TV. Regina's hair barely falls on her shoulders and her eyes look darker in this light. There's no other way to put it other than she's completely  _ fucked.  _ No way she can go back to just being her produce person. Especially after what will be an awkward silence of a date.

 

“Aren't you going to sit?” Regina asks with her brow furrowed and with her hand on the wine.

 

“Yeah, yeah. Sorry.” 

 

“Don't…” She says like she's in the middle of thought but stops herself. “It's alright.” Regina snaps her fingers and plates manifest in front of them. Rice and chicken in a orange curry, what she assumes is yogurt and something else she can't recognize. 

 

“This looks amazing.” 

 

“Let's hope it tastes as good as it looks.” 

 

There is something off about both their words, both their voices. Regina had tried to smile but it had blurred into something else. Emma can't blame her. This isn't a disaster. This is much worse. This is small talk over a water cooler. The only thing they're in sync about is their commitment to seeing this to the end. Regina spoons herself some rice and layers it with the chicken. Emma follows suit so as not embarrass herself, only takes the first bite after Regina has taken hers. 

 

“It's good. Really good,” she tells her, already reaching for a sip of wine. 

 

“I'm glad to hear it. It's one of Henry's recipes, actually.” Regina relaxes her shoulders and seems to let out a breath. “I'll tell him it's a hit.” 

 

Emma nods and takes one bite. And another and another. It's spicy and sweet from something she can't really place. It's warming up her whole body, she feels it in her neck and arms. Like electricity, little jolts of it. Maybe it's some spell Regina used in the recipe. 

 

“Hey, what did you...” Regina is looking at her with panic spreading on her face. Even paler than she'd been a week ago. “What? What's wrong?”  Emma asks, feeling that itch in her feet come back with a vengeance.

 

“You’re breaking out in hives!” She snaps her fingers again, and a blue vial is in her hands.

 

“What? That's not possible unless there's…” The sweetness that feels fruity and like a summer day. “There isn't any of  _ my _ mangoes in this, right?” That itch is spreading all over her body now, red bumps popping up by her wrists. 

 

“It’s mango curry! Who else’s could they possibly be?!” Regina's chair scratches the floor as she makes her way to her side of the table. 

 

“I'm allergic to this week's batch.” Emma mumbles looking up at Regina who seems determined to glare at her. 

 

“Drink this,” she says, putting the vial in front of her lips. 

 

“What is it?” 

 

“Poison. What do you think it is?” Regina rolls her eyes at the expression that must be frozen. “It’s Roland's emergency allergy remedy. I keep it around just in case.” 

 

Emma downs the whole vial without daring to twist her mouth at the taste of it. Before she knows it Regina is pulling her out of her chair and leading her out a backdoor. This must be it. The kick out of her house. Soon enough they're out in her garden, where it looks and feels like Spring. 

 

“The remedy works faster with fresh air,” she explains, crossing her arms.

 

“Oh. Right. I've heard of that.” Emma scratches the back of her neck. “Listen I'm sorry...”

 

“Of all the thoughtless, moronic things to do!” Regina finally snaps. Emma shouldn’t be as relieved as she is. “How could you not share that vital piece of information with me!” 

 

“Like I was supposed to guess it was gonna be mango curry?” Emma moves on to scratch her knuckles. “I'm not exactly clairvoyant!” 

 

“You could have put two and two together! Henry bought mangoes from you this afternoon!” That vein on her forehead is throbbing, and Emma feels a smile creeping onto her lips.

 

“I'm white, Regina!” She's full on grinning now. “I only recognize an ingredient when it's bacon!” 

 

“Oh my God. I should have known better than this.” Regina puts a hand to her forehead. Emma gets closer and dares to reach out and touch her elbow. “I should have…”

 

“Hey, it isn't your fault.” 

 

“That you’re white?” She lowers her hand and lets Emma keep her fingers on her skin. There's that smile from Monday again, half exasperation half hesitation. “You're right, I can't be blamed for that.” 

 

Emma is overwhelmed with a sudden fondness. More than she thought she had in her. She ends up rolling her eyes and shaking her head, there is no other way to bear it. Building a comeback seems impossible, looking at Regina against the purples and reds of flowers and vines of her garden.

 

“You have a green thumb,” Emma whispers as she rubs a small circle on Regina's wrist.

 

“What?” She looks startled, like she's scared the breath out of her. 

 

“A green thumb, you know? Things grow for you.” She spots an apple tree near the edge of the garden, next to some orchids that have no business growing in New England. “You could probably grow your own vegetables if you wanted to.” 

 

“I could, but the town economy is small,” Her words are careful and she pauses to moisten her lips. “Everyone needs to contribute to it. And support small business owners.” 

 

“Like me.” 

 

Regina scoffs and only pretends to try and move away. “Like Granny Lucas.”

 

“And you have Granny over for dinner and give her an allergic reaction on Friday nights too.” 

 

Regina narrows her eyes and scrunches up her nose. Emma doesn't think she's aware of it. “You are the most obnoxious mess of a witch on this planet. How do you make yourself allergic to your own produce?!” 

 

It isn't the lighting or even the strain of Regina's voice that flushes her skin. Emma is aware that she must still look ridiculous, with red hives all over, but she smiles in that way she knows is dopey. Because Regina Mills can grow her own vegetables. She can grow her own vegetables and she’s poking her chest with a finger. 

 

She shrugs. “I'm allergic to the sugar cane powder I use to make them sweeter because the earth here makes them bitter.” 

 

“What could possibly move you to try and grow them here? It's inefficient in a town where most people don’t even know what to do with them. I must be about the only person who…”

 

Neither of them can deal with being exposed, it seems. Emma shifts her weight from one foot to another and Regina's mouth is half open. 

 

“You and the kid, yeah.” Emma bites her lips because she should still want to run. She should. She doesn't.

 

Regina breathes in and closes the distance between them. Her lips on hers still taste like mango, sweet. So sweet that Emma deepens the kiss, not minding a flare up. It's really something. To be out here, where it shouldn't be Spring, with Regina's teeth lightly grazing her lips. Slow, so slow that she doubts any time has passed at all. It could be magic. That impossible kind she doesn't know and maybe just discovered.

 

Regina breaks away for a breath, and Emma kisses her jaw before taking half a step back.

 

“I promised you dinner, I can still make…” Her lipstick is smudged and it makes Emma weak in the knees. “I have corn flour in the pantry..--” Regina begins to move away from her, cogs in her brain turning with ingredients and dishes. 

 

Emma takes her by the hand to stop her. “How about we order pizza and stay right here?” 

 

“Pizza?” The outrage on Regina’s face has always been her favorite thing. “That excuse of an over-baked bread with bottled marinara from Johnny's?” 

 

Emma shakes her head as she pulls her closer. “I know a guy who knows a guy.” 

 

“Am I supposed to believe there's a black market for pizza?” Regina curls a finger around a lock of her hair. 

 

“What do you think keeps this town running?”

 

Regina lets a full-bodied laugh, tilting her head back. She was wrong, this is her definite favorite thing. “That is the stupidest thing I have ever heard.” 

 

She's still laughing when Emma kisses her again. 

 

* * *

 

She’s still in her leotard and shorts at six while she sets up the chairs in her dance studio. Esmeralda doesn’t think any of the witches showing up tonight will mind. The kids today had been a little unfocused, José just couldn’t hold his pose long enough for that blue light he was aiming for. Emilia had tripped over her own magic three times making try to play and catch up with de Falla’s music. The rest of the class had just been too distracted with her new student to give it their best. Lucy Vidrio who has more natural talent than she’s seen a while. Esmeralda lets herself get excited the music and steps and where the girl could go. Maybe she’s getting ahead of herself. Not everyone young witch with an affinity for dance does end up at the Company for Magical Dance. She sure as hell didn’t. 

 

With a flick of her wrist the banner for the Regional Chapter of Witches for Change unfolds itself over the mirror. She’s where she should be, slipping out of her ballet shoes and going over tonight’s agenda. It could be ambitious but they don’t do half-ass anything, they can’t afford to. First and most important on the list is protesting a certain coven’s initiative to start a witch’s government that links itself with the national government. Like that would work or benefit people outside that coven. Local government is tricky enough as it is, with Mayflower warlocks and witches always trying to take over town meetings. They say it’s to keep their communities safe. Esmeralda can smell bullshit from a mile away. Second is the growing concern that certain remedies and potions are in danger of being monetized and that is just three different kinds of evil. Next thing they know people outside their communities will be filing for a patent and they won’t be able to brew potions without it setting some sort of alert. 

 

She stretches her back before sliding the door open. The chill might do muscles some good as she waits for members to show up. Town square is already lighting up with soft yellows.It fills Esmeralda with contentment to know that this is her life. Moving across town square she spots Regina Mills with her signature tray of food, that woman can always be counted to be on time. Esmeralda has been trying to get her to run for town selectwoman for  _ years _ and she keeps putting it off for reasons she doesn’t buy. She’s the one person on Mifflin Street who actually cares and puts in the work. Maybe the third item on the agenda today is to ask her to reconsider. Again. Esmeralda is already going over her pitch for this time around but then the funniest thing happens just as she’s about to cross the street. Emma Swan, the one and only produce person, calls her name. She didn’t think there was anyone capable of making Regina Mills wait. Seems like there might be.

 

The rumors from the Pizza Guys could actually be on to something. Usually Esmeralda pays them no mind because who has time for their gossip. She’d heard from Nala who had heard from Mary Margaret who’d gotten it from Yazmin whose boyfriend, Al, is friends with one of the guys that Emma Swan had placed an order for a pizza delivery Friday night. Now that alone isn’t significant, Nala had said, because everyone knows that Emma Swan is their biggest customer. The detail lies in the fact that the address she had given was 108 Mifflin Street. Esmeralda had shrugged because that isn’t proof of anything, really. Besides, it isn’t any of her business who is ordering pizza from outside the town line and why. She reconsiders that now. 

 

Emma Swan laughs and Esmeralda has always been good at picking up the trails of emotion that come from a witch’s laugh. That woman might just be head over hills already. But it’s Regina Mills who is the true shocker with a gaze she doesn’t drop. The only time Esmeralda has seen her like is when she had watched her son dance recital some ten years ago. But it’s not the same. She knows it’s not the same by the way she lets Emma Swan grab the loose end of her jacket to pull her closer. The final clue comes from the way Regina Mills smirks at what was probably a whisper from the other woman. That’s when she decides to re-think the arrangement of her chairs because she cannot be witness to anything else. 

 

“Good evening, Esmeralda.” Regina Mills says as she steps inside. It’s so easy to pick up her trails of emotion from her too.She’s has it just as bad. 

 

“Hey.” Esmeralda has the decency to pretend to be surprised to see Emma Swan standing there with her. 

 

“Is it OK if I join tonight?” Emma Swan asks with her fingertips still holding onto the jacket. 

 

“The more the merrier,” She smiles because she just discovered a new angle. “Maybe you can help me convince Regina to run for town selectwoman next Spring.” 

 

“We’ll see,” Emma Swan returns her smile but it isn’t directed at her. “She’s pretty tough to crack.” 

 

Regina Mills rolls her eyes, pointlessly fighting her obvious fondness. 

 

Esmeralda knows two things. This is bigger than the Pizza Guys rumors had suggested and that Regina Mills will be running town meetings a year from now. 

 

* * *

 

“And this is for your history class, mijito?” His grandfather asks from the green fog of his mother’s crystal ball. He’s brought up to his bed like he isn’t supposed to but she doesn’t know can’t hurt her. 

 

“Yeah, something like that,” Henry replies readying his pen and notebook. “Mr. Peabody insists that only New England witches suffered persecution in the continent…” 

 

His grandfather makes a sound of disapproval. “Y quién lo deja enseñar?” 

 

“‘Buelo, don’t even get me started on that. Mom’s submitted three motions to have him replaced.” Just thinking about his tweed jacket makes him grind his teeth. Four hundred years have done nothing for Richard Peabody. “I thought we could go over family history again?” 

 

His grandfather nods and he knows he’s pleased him. He’s always glad when Henry calls. 

 

“Your tatarabuela’s side first?” 

 

“If you want.” Henry writes his great-grandmother’s name at the very top of the page and underlines it in blue. 

 

“The year was 1492,” He still uses the same voice he used when he was little. “When my mother and her family were expelled from Spain.They changed their names and boarded a ship to the Americas…” 

 

“But it didn’t end there.” The ink turns red as he writes, Mr. Peabody will know just how strongly he feels about this. 

 

“Oh no. You know how the Spanish were. Couldn’t keep their nonsense in one place.” His grandfather momentarily disappears which means has lied back in this favorite armchair. 

 

“What happened after?” 

 

“Inquisition, and you can say that al Mr. Peabody ese.” His grandfather’s dark and curly hair seems to blur in the fog. Henry remembers his grandfather offering it for him to touch and pull when he was younger so that he knew they were family. Blood or no blood. “Anyone who wouldn’t bow down to their ways was met with fire. Baba was Cacique. He and his people tried fighting them off their shores for years.” 

 

“So how did your parents meet?” Henry asks even if he already knows. He also makes sure to leave a space to include an image of capirotes as evidence. 

 

“Mama and baba were called to be witnesses against each other at a trial.Inquisitors thought that there would be no bond between two people who were so different.” This is his favorite part, he can tell. “But they refused. The Spanish did not know they had put two brujos together. Everyone lived that day because of them.” 

 

“What year was this?” The timeline needs to be just right. This isn’t an assignment, this a formal rebuttal after all. 

 

“1510, if I’m not mistaken.” 

 

“Wait…” Henry puts down his pen and looks at his grandfather. “‘Buelo you were born in 1789, weren’t you?” 

 

“It took baba and mama over two hundred years to get together.” He laughs that deep laugh that Henry always tried to imitate. “Baba grew food according to mama’s instructions and mama kept everyone fed. This is the sort of arrangement that can go forever, you see.” His grandfather gives him a knowing look. 

 

“Oh my God.” His forehead hits his notebook because he  _ cannot  _ believe this. It’s hereditary. 

 

“How is your mama doing?” His grandfather hasn’t stopped laughing. 

 

“It finally happened. Mom isn't really talking about  it,” He whispers even if he knows his mom isn’t in the house. “ BUT I caught her singing Tu Me Acostumbraste. You didn’t hear that from me.” 

 

“I’ll take this to the grave. Esa hija mía,” He sighs finally settling down. “Maybe I’ll get to meet this Emma Swan on my next visit.”

 

“Definitely.” Henry looks at the time. A quarter to eight, he needs to get to the marina by eight fifteen if he wants to catch that star alignment over the water. “‘Buelo can we pick this up again on Sunday? I kind of need to work on my astrology assignment.” 

 

“Go, go.” 

 

Henry mutters a new spell to make the wheels on his bike go faster. He’d forgotten his scarf but he won’t be long. Besides he is just downright sure that no matter how the stars are aligned he can jot down some sentimental possible future for Cancers and he will get a pass. The star map isn’t neat or the most accurate but he’s fine with that. Astrology isn’t his favorite or his best subject and everyone, including tía Zelena, has made peace with that fact. He’s back on his bike and takes a shortcut through Oak Street, determined to get home and have seconds from mom’s tapado before she gets back. But he sees the oddest thing, and that is saying something in a town like Storybrooke, and needs to stop. It’s Emma setting up a duvet and pillows over a patch of land in her yard. She’s wearing a beanie, loose pajama bottoms and a thick coat. 

 

“Hi Emma.” Henry tries to sound as casual as possible. 

 

“Hey kid.” She smiles at him like this a normal scene for her. “What’s up?”  

 

“What’s...you aren’t planning on sleeping out here. Right?” 

 

“There’s a cold front coming in and it might kill the okra.” Emma snorts like she’s thought of a joke. “Can you imagine the look on your mom’s face if there’s no okra for the wedding tomorrow? I think she might actually set me on fire then.” 

 

“So you’re sleeping out here to keep them warm?” Henry drags out the words because he’s hoping he’s wrong. 

 

“Apparently that’s the best way to do it or whatever.” She rubs her hands together. “I’m not taking my chances with any spells tonight.” 

 

“Right. Ok. That makes sense” 

 

Emma comes closer and seems to consider something. “Can you maybe not mention this to your mom?” Her breath freezes over her words and it makes him suck in a breath. 

 

“I promise she won’t hear it from me.” Henry says crossing his fingers behind his back. “I’ll see you tomorrow at the wedding?” 

 

“Yeah. Night, kid. Ride safe.” 

 

Henry mutters his spells twice over, to get him home faster and call his mother. Because she will want to know about this. This new unbelievable thing in the list of unbelievable things he has learned today. 

* * *

 

“Sweetheart, what do you mean she’s sleeping with the okra?” Regina says balancing the phone on her shoulder. She is very lightly applying vodka to the fondant details of the main wedding cake, the last of her tasks for tonight. 

 

“I mean that she is sleeping with the okra,” Henry sounds out of breath, like he ran to get to the phone. “I saw pillows, mom.” 

 

“Oh my God.” She sets her brush aside and straightens at once. “Why on Earth is she doing that?!” 

 

“Something about a killer cold and having to keep them warm for the wedding.” He says with his voice still heavy. 

 

Regina closes her eyes and remembers that okra was a last minute addition she had to have because there wasn’t enough traditional dishes for her taste. 

 

“Mom? You aren’t just going to leave her there, right?” 

 

“No,of course not.” She adjust one last petal before slipping into her coat. “Marian will be over soon with Roland…” 

 

“Mom, I’m almost 16. I don’t need tía Marian baby-sitting me.” Regina can hear the eye roll through the phone line. 

 

“I know,” It takes so much effort to keep herself from cooing at her teenager. “You’d be giving her break. Roland snuck into the pantry earlier and had his fill of sugar.” 

 

“Aha.” 

 

“I love you, tesoro.” 

 

“Love you too mom” He mumbles before hanging up. 

 

Regina makes a quick call to Marian explaining the situation as best she can, not without the questions of que le hiciste a la pobre mujer and a few other ones she has never let go of. Then she summons the violet of her magic to take her to Emma’s vegetable patch. She rarely does such a thing, it’s too much energy to hold molecules together and keep herself intact. But this latest absurdity in the list of Emma Swan absurdities requires it. Regina sucks in a breath and pictures the fence that needs fixing and vegetable patch and braces herself for her molecules trying to split. It’s over in a few seconds. 

 

“What the..!” Emma exclaims right after a yelp. 

 

Regina opens her eyes and sees her lying back on the ground looking she just had the fright of her life. A wool hat is covering her forehead and there are two duvets set laid out over the plants. Emma’s cheeks are red with the cold even with the portable heater she has dragged out here with two extension cords. 

 

“What are you doing? Regina asks putting her hands on her hips.

 

“What are  _ you  _ doing?” Emma shoots back getting to her feet. “Besides almost giving me a heart attack.” 

 

“Stopping whatever nonsense this is.” She stretches readying her fingers for a spell. “You are not spending the night here and I’m sure the right heat incantation should…”

 

“No!” Emma reaches for her hands and holds her fingers in place. “It might ruin the crop. You don’t know how they’ll react.”

 

Regina breathes in considering her options because she knows she’s promised one of the brides okra in a tomato sauce. One more change to the menu or serving program might push Marian and the brides to the point of exasperation. But she can’t just let Emma do this. It’s too much, even by her standards. 

 

“And what do you suggest we do?” 

 

“See, I was planning on sleeping out there and you never finding out but I’m guessing the kid ratted me out.” She bites her lip and Regina is suddenly glad she’s allowed to be shameless in her gaze now. 

 

“He did, yes.” It had meant to be severe but she can only do so much when her hands are still in Emma’s. “I received a very frantic phone call.” 

 

“So that's why he sped away into the night.” Emma gives her sheepish smile.“I’ll be fine. I promise. Go, you need your rest.” 

 

“You’re insane if you think I’m letting you do this alone.” Regina untangles her hands from hers and heads towards Emma’s makeshift bed. It leaves her gaping at her. “Are you just going to stand there?”

 

“No.” She clears her throat and joins her. “So your solution is that we both sleep out here.” 

 

“This way we both freeze to death and I can’t be blamed for it.” The duvets are surprisingly comfortable under her but she is not about to say that.

 

“A woman after my heart.” She only pretends to grumble as she readjusts pillows around them. 

 

Lately all Regina can do is be reduced to something she knows is bubbling affection. She hadn’t been able to help herself that day at the kitchen learning about Emma’s ill fated sweet potato experiment. Her heart had practically leapt out of her chest when her fingers encountered a bump on her skin because the fool had made herself allergic so that she could have sweet mangoes to offer. And now here she is, sleeping on a patch of earth so that everything goes according to plan tomorrow. 

 

“What?” Emma asks, concerned. She realizes she must have been staring. 

 

Regina kisses her, lightly on the lips. Because she’d forgotten to say hello.

 

“Oh. That.” She returns the kiss. “I like that we get to do that now.” 

 

“Mhmm.” Regina’s fingers instinctively find a lock of Emma’s hair. A week and she’s left speechless by blonde curls. She should have been warned. 

 

The green of Emma’s eyes shine when she’s smiling. Regina has always known that but it makes an idiot out of her, coaxes a grin from her. Before she knows it she’s kissing her again. Falling back against the ground. The whole of her warms under Emma’s touch, from her cheeks to her toes. Stray leaves and twigs could be tangling themselves in her hair and she doesn’t care. This has to be some sort of untapped magic. There is no other explanation. No other explanation as to why she just can’t seem to get enough of her. It’s been a week, she reminds herself. A week and two years. 

 

“How do I know this wasn’t just a ploy to get me to come?” Regina asks her when they break for air. 

 

“You don’t.” Emma laughs against her neck, playing along. There is a smaller laugh as she rolls onto her back. “You know, I never thought I’d be here.” 

 

“I don’t think many people have ever thought they’ll be sleeping on seed pods.” She replies still catching her breath. 

 

“No, I mean…” It comes out quietly. “It’s stupid.” 

 

“Tell me.” Regina says, running her fingers across Emma’s knuckles. She wants to know because Emma had asked about the eternal Spring of her garden. Listened when she’d told her about arriving with Henry to a house covered in sheets and dust. The house her father had built to his taste but never lived in. Mother hadn’t allowed it, preferring the urban mansions favored by the covens whose approval she craved . Emma had sucked in a breath when she heard of the looks and whispers from the rest of Mifflin street that followed her for years after .  

 

“Five years ago this random perp, she uh..” Emma looks up at her and Regina nods to reassure her. “She went into this old tea house in the city. Which is a weird choice if you’re skipping on bail. Anyway... I followed her in and it was a witches gathering. They welcomed me like I was one of them. I didn’t know.” 

 

“You didn’t know what?” She asks as gently as she can. 

 

“That I was witch. Sure, strange crap happened around me all the time. And I could always tell when someone was lying but…” It sounds like she has been holding her breath for years.

 

“You didn’t know.” Regina echoes, thinking of Emma during that first town meeting. Hands in her pockets and revealing as little of herself as she could. Just enough so that the town unanimously welcomed her but not too much to invite questions. 

 

“I spent some three years trying to make sense of it. Or ignoring it, depending on the day.” She pictures Emma with her feet outstretched on the subway trying to figure out how it was that she could feel the secrets of the strangers surrounding her. “I’m not like you. I didn’t know my parents.I didn’t...” 

 

Regina suppresses the urge to say it doesn’t matter or tell her about her mother trapped in a mirror box somewhere. “What did you do?”

 

“Went back to that old tea house one day. They’d put up these brochures, one was from Storybrooke.” 

 

“Oh God. I remember those.” Suddenly she’s just as horrified by them as she’d been years before. They were tacky things, with a cartoonish Sun in a corner and pumpkins framing a photo of town square. 

 

A snort comes from Emma. “The best witch town in New England.” 

 

“I was against that tagline. I told them it was generic, basic and just short of insipid.” Regina says, suddenly needing to make this very clear. 

 

“It got me here.” She tells her with true sincerity. “That’s good, right?” 

 

“Very good,” Regina shifts closer to her. “Even if your radishes are a tad too small.”

 

“You’re my worst customer. By far.” Emma hugs her waist and Regina is too busy keeping her heart in check to tell her that she never thought she’d be here either. In her chef’s coat, feeling younger than she remembers ever being. 

 

“Your worst customer who stands between you and hypothermia.” She scoffs, like her words have any weight whatsoever. 

 

“That only puts you above Mrs. Mulberry.” Regina can feel Emma’s smile against her shoulder. “And she paid me in all nickels once.”

 

Regina nudges her in the ribs and pretends like she’s breaking away from her embrace. Enough that Emma whispers an apology in between laughs and she’s settling back against her. Out here where neither of them thought they would be. 

 

* * *

 

The grass is cool under her stockings. Lucy knows that they’re probably muddied and brown now, but her feet hurt a little less dancing shoeless. The hem of her dress is green with grass stains and she’s pretty sure this is the best day of her life. Her mamá and moma are finally married. _Finally._  It’s been eight hours since they exchanged rings and the wedding is nowhere near over. The whole town has been invited and she’s pretty sure she hasn’t even reached the end of the party. Mamá jokes that they did it all of this backwards. That they met by accident when Lucy had been a few months from being born. They were friends for a long a time. The longest, if anyone asks. And then mamá says y solo fuimos más. Whatever that’s supposed to mean. Nothing has really changed except now they live in Storybrooke in a two story house. And that’s really important because it means her bedroom is a real one and that moma gets her big kitchen. 

 

“Torrejas.” Lucy whispers to herself as she finds a whole pot of them that is just hers for the taking. She fishes one out and spoons extra syrup onto her plate just to be sure. 

 

“Your mamá requested those just for you.” Moma says from behind her. Lucy has always known her moma is pretty but she looks it even more now. In a green dress and with white flowers in her hair. 

 

“Do we get to take them home?” 

 

Her moma lets out a laugh and kisses the top of her head.  “Better than my beignets?” 

 

“Nuh uh, just different.” Lucy replies with her mouth full of sweet bread. 

 

“Do you want come thank the chef with me?” She extends a hand to her. 

 

Lucy nods as hard as she can because she loves it when moma takes her to kitchens. And there are towers of food everywhere here. Enchanted to never be any shorter than what they actually are. She saw a boy nearing one of the tables laid out in the garden and how it just rearranged itself to hand him a crabcake. Mamá and moma had closed their eyes when they tried yellow mousse and Lucy knows she has to meet the witch who was able to do that. Her moma leads her through all the people and waiters, the music, and through a small door until they reach a kitchen. 

 

“Pairing kiwi with that would be ludicrous.” Someone says and she doesn’t sound upset exactly. 

 

“Would it kill you to try?” Another voice replies and she sounds...amused. Like how mamá gets around moma Saturday nights. “You can just put it out when everyone’s too drunk to notice.” 

 

“It’s not on the approved menu. You are out of your mind if you think I’m just going to experiment--” 

 

“Maybe I can help with that.” Moma offers and Lucy can now see who the voices belong to.

 

A dark haired woman in white coat. Lucy assumes she must be the chef because she has never seen someone look this neat in a kitchen. And a blonde woman who looks like she should not be here at all. In a leather jacket and boots. 

 

“Miss Rose…” The chef begins, she looks like they caught her off guard. The woman in the leather jacket has suddenly gone very still. 

 

“Lucy and I just wanted to come and thank you. It’s been wonderful.” Moma gets closer and everyone is suddenly smiling. Moma does that to people. Lucy thinks she must been a queen before and she just isn’t telling her. “Lucy even wants to take everything home.” 

 

“It’s true!” She pipes in. 

 

The chef clears her throat and the other woman squeezes her hand. “That’s very satisfying to hear. Especially coming from you.”  It makes moma shake her head, like those words aren’t meant for her.

 

“Now, what is that should not go with kiwi? I’m kind of spooked here.” 

 

The chef glances at the other woman, just for a second. “Mint and white chocolate.” 

 

“Jesus, no,” Moma laughs. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. That is a terrible idea.” 

 

Lucy learned what smug meant some months ago and the chef looks like the definition of it. Her tongue is in her cheek, to keep from smiling. The woman in the leather jacket is rolling her eyes and Lucy wonders if they’re married too. 

 

“Aren’t you glad I’m just her produce person?” 

 

Moma nods, like she’s trying not to laugh. “You should join the party. I think you’ve got food covered til dawn.” 

 

“But there is still the cake to cut.” 

 

“After the cake is cut.” Moma tells her, it’s impossible to say no to her. 

 

“You can’t miss all the dancing. Miss Esme is out there lighting up the whooole floor.” Lucy adds for good measure because no one should miss the dancing. 

 

“You’re right,” The chef smiles at her this time. “I can’t miss all the dancing.” 

 

“I’m glad that’s settled. We’ll see you out there in a few.” Moma says as she puts a hand to her back and leads her back out into the music. 

 

The garden is covered in reds and purples that follow the rhythm. Some who can’t keep up fade out into yellows but it looks just as pretty in the night. Lucy watches for a few minutes, listens for the drop in the music that tells her the cake is coming. It happens during one the songs mamá had picked out and Lucy rushes to her place by the table. 

 

“You know, when I told Sabine a wedding with all the bells and whistles wasn’t totally crazy she looked at me like I  _ was  _ crazy.” Her mamá says with a voice magnifying spell and all the guest laughs. “She asked me if someone had gone and kidnapped the real Jacinda. It was all very romantic.” The crowd laughs again and mamá cuts into the cake with moma’s hands over hers. 

 

People clap and Lucy thinks that no one has ever been this happy. Moma gets icing on mama’s nose and before she knows she’s being pulled into her arms. 

 

“Mamá!” She exclaims feeling icing being kissed onto her cheek. 

 

“There’s no escape for you, mi pulga!” Her mamá kisses her again and Lucy thinks she may be getting a little too old for this. But she doesn’t mind. 

 

She still doesn’t mind when they both lead her to dance floor and she’s squished between them. It’s that song that’s slow and Lucy doesn’t entirely like because it makes her magic barely light up. Lucy wraps her arms around mama’s waist and searches for the chef and the produce person. They would be hard to miss, she thinks. White coat and leather jacket, white coat and leather jacket she repeats silently. They’re not to be found and Lucy wonders if she can march back into the kitchen and get them to follow her like moma would. But then she spots loose blonde hair falling over a black dress jacket at one end of the dance floor. Her eyes are quick to follow her gaze and she finds the chef standing at the other end. Looking a lot like moma did when she first saw mamá in her wedding dress. A little dumb and reallly, really happy. So happy Lucy thinks she’s forgotten she’s a witch and can magic herself out of her coat and into a dress.

 

Not that it matters when she reaches the other end of the dance floor. They don’t know what to do at first. Maybe all grown witches are a little dumb when they’re in love. She hopes she isn’t like that when it’s time. Lucy watches them, how the chef sighs before resting her chin on the other woman’s shoulder. Her produce person hugs her waist and sink into her. It doesn’t make for a very good dance, not even for a white sparks. But it doesn’t matter, she’s sure of that. Not with the way they’re smiling. 

 

Maybe Lucy does hope she’s a little like that when it’s time.

  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> I gave Sabine a last name because she deserves one! Rose after Anika Noni Rose.


End file.
